Mute
by navigatio
Summary: Yes, this is another Grave Danger story. Complete. Ok, I posted this a while ago, but I just realized the first two chapters were out of order. So I fixed it. No new chapters.
1. Waking up is hard to do

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this story. I'm just borrowing them for a little while and then I'll put them back where I found them. I promise.

Author's Note: Story starts when Nick wakes up in the hospital after the events of "Grave Danger". Yes, I know I'm a little late, but I've been working on this story idea for a while and I just needed to post it. I'd like to acknowledge Laurie Halse Anderson's fantastic book, Speak, where I got some of my ideas.

Mute

Chapter 1: Waking up is hard to do

It takes me a few minutes to realize I'm awake, that this is the reality now, and what I was feeling a minute ago, that was the dream. I can remember only snatches of the past few hours. I wasn't really aware for most of it, kept slipping back and forth between delirium and consciousness, freedom and captivity. But now I'm awake for sure. Sweaty, shaking all over, and dying of thirst, but awake.

The room is semi-dark. Smells like disinfectant. I can hear beeping in an even rhythm. White sheets. I lift my arm and see, amidst the round, red welts, a needle stuck inside my elbow, a line leading to a half-empty IV bag hanging from a pole next to the bed. When I glance around the room, I find that everything is curiously grayed out, colors muted.

I turn my head to the right and see Grissom sitting in a chair next to the bed. Startles me, I guess, because the rhythmic beeping picks up speed. But he's slumped sideways in the chair, cheek on his fist, glasses askew, asleep. There's a magazine, no--a journal, in his lap, open to a glossy, full-page closeup of an ant, partially covered by Grissom's hand. The vivid red carapace stands out brightly in a sea of shades of gray. The beeping cranks up another notch. Calm down, it's just a picture. Pictures don't bite.

Grissom looks defeated. His clothes are rumpled and dirty, hair messed up, face more deeply lined than I remember. There are scratches on his hands and side of his neck. My eyes, in jumping around the room, take this in, but I'm not really able to make sense of it.

I become aware of something else: that I really, really have to take a piss. Across the small room I spot a sink, and beside it a door. The bathroom. No problem. I can get there, no need to wake Sleeping Beauty. So I sit up. Big mistake. My vision swims, the room spins, left side feels like it's on fire. Not good. I don't know why my side hurts. I close my eyes and see ants, dancing on the stars and sparkles.

Nurses. Nurses help with stuff like this. Let's call a nurse. I fumble for the call button, find it on the side of the bed, and push it. While I wait for someone to show up, I lean forward on my arms, eyes closed, mouth filling with water, and concentrate on keeping the contents of my stomach on the inside.

"What do you need?" says a quiet voice, right beside my ear. All my muscles tense involuntarily, my eyes fly open and the little beeps now race like an alarm clock. I look up into the face of Nurse Rachet's twin sister. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," she says pleasantly. "Do you need something?"

With a glance at Grissom, still slumped in the chair asleep, I point at the bathroom door. The nurse smiles at me and says, "I'll help you." She disconnects and shuts off the monitor (silence from a heart monitor--somewhat disconcerting), hooks her arm under my elbow, and walks me to the bathroom, rolling the IV pole along with us. My side is killing me and my head is pounding, but I try to walk under my own power as much as possible.

She stands next to me, facing away, hand still under my elbow, while I drain my bladder. I'd ask her to leave, but I'm afraid I'd fall down and that would be somewhat more humiliating. When it comes time to wash my hands, I can't manage the faucet, so the nurse turns on the water for me, gets me some soap and a paper towel. My hands are shaking hard, a kind of a rolling tremor that makes them almost useless, but the nurse doesn't seem to notice. While drying my hands, I happen to glance up and spot a stranger in the mirror. Who is that guy, I wonder distractedly. He looks like shit. By the time I make the connection, that, oh, right, that's me, the nurse has opened the door for me and hustles me out of the bathroom.

The lights are on now, and Grissom is sitting up in his chair, blinking owlishly, glasses still crooked on his nose. A phalanx of nurses is bustling about replacing the sheets on the bed, one busily tucking the sheet into those "hospital corners" that I could never get the hang of, another shaking the pillow into a new case, while a third stuffs the dirty sheets into a laundry bag. I stand, swaying against Nurse Rachet, until they all troop out, leaving my bed perfectly tucked, pressed and folded.

Rachet--I think of her as Rachet because I have no idea what her real name is and don't have the energy to ask--pulls back the covers and I sit on the bed. I lay back on the pillow but I can't quite summon the strength to swing my legs up onto the bed so Rachet does it for me, pulling up the sheet and tucking it in around me like a swaddled newborn. I can't stand the tightness, the feeling of being pinned down, so I pull my arms out and lay them on top of the sheet, one hand gripping the other to stop the shakes. She reconnects the monitor, which begins to beep again (still way too fast), smiles at me, and leaves the room.

Grissom steps up next to the bed, tentative smile on his face. "Good to see you up and about," he says brightly. I have never known Grissom to say anything "brightly" before, but that's the best way to describe it. There is a little pucker between his eyebrows that gives away his true feelings.

I open my mouth but then can't think of anything to say so I close it again and instead give him a little smile and nod. He grabs my hand, squeezes it, and lets go.

"How are you feeling? Any--any pain?"

I'm thinking, my side hurts like hell, but I don't say that. I shrug and shake my head.

"Your parents went back to the hotel to get some rest. Your mom said she'd come back in the morning."

My parents are here? I didn't even realize--but of course they would be called, they would need to know what was happening, that I was missing. I vaguely remember hearing my mom's voice, during a period of semi-lucidity, but had thought that was another hallucination, like seeing myself on the autopsy table, like the ants now ghosting over my blistered skin.

"We're glad to have you back," Grissom tries again. The pucker is deeper, even though his smile has widened. I'm not fooled. He clears his throat. "Warrick--Warrick is coming in a little while. He--uh--he'll be happy to see you awake."

I still can't think of anything to say. My eyes flick away from him, to the bedside table, where there is a cup of water with a straw in it. I want to ask Grissom for a drink, but I can't force the words through my raw, desiccated throat, so I settle for gesturing feebly toward the cup.

"You want a drink? Sure." He picks up the cup and holds it for me when I can't get my hands to stay still enough to grasp it. "Do you need anything else?" he asks, but I'm not really listening. My eyes--I can't quite seem to keep them focused on one thing for more than a few seconds--have skipped away from his worried face and locked in on the journal, still open on the chair. Grissom's eyes follow mine to the full-page glossy of the ant.

"Oh," he says, mouth twisting. He quickly sets the cup down and scoops up the magazine, shutting it so the cover with the title "Entomologist Monthly" shows. But there is a picture of the ant there as well, so he rolls the journal up in his hands and shoves it into his jacket pocket. He turns around to see that I am still looking at him.

"Sorry about that," he says awkwardly. "I was just reading about--well--I was getting more information about--They're quite fascinating, actually. Did you know that--um . . ." he trails off, watching me nervously. I finally made Grissom nervous. How about that? The tables certainly have turned.

He watches me uncomfortably for a moment, chewing the inside of his lip. I want to say something, something reassuring, like, "It's ok, no problem," but my voice doesn't seem to be cooperating. There is a lump in my throat that I suspect has nothing to do with thirst.

The silence stretches out uncomfortably. I close my burning eyes and turn my face away from him. I can sense that he is still watching me, but I don't open my eyes. I try to relax my hands and even out my breathing, desperately pretending to be asleep. After a moment I feel a hand on my shoulder. A gentle squeeze, then a rustling and a slight breeze as Grissom leaves the room. My breath comes out in a sigh of relief.

I hear voices in the hall, Grissom saying, "Can I talk to you?" then a female voice answering. I can't make out the words anymore, maybe they moved away from the door, but I can hear the rise and fall of the intonation patterns. Their voices sound concerned.

I try to listen, but it's so hard to concentrate. My head feels fuzzy, and the ants riding on stars and sparkles are back, even though I'm lying down now. My arms and legs feel like they're floating. Not bad. I could just float away, freed from the box, freed from gravity even. The voices fade away and I drift off into oblivion.

More to come. . .

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	2. Golden Boy

Author's note: Thank you all for the very kind reviews. Clarification on the timeline of the first chapter--my premise is that Nick had been in and out of consciousness for several hours, enough time that everyone else would have gone home, leaving only Grissom to watch over him. Anyway, on with the story. . .

Ch. 2 Golden Boy

I wake up gasping, pushing at the lid of a box which disappears as soon as I open my eyes. Dim lights. Antiseptic smell. Beeping. Must be the hospital again. This is reality, I remind myself sternly. Breathe in and out. Plenty of oxygen here.

I look to the right, expecting Grissom, but instead it's Warrick, leaning forward in the chair with his elbows resting on his knees. He looks up and sees me, smiles and steps up next to the bed.

"Hey, Buddy."

I put on a small smile for him, but can't come up with a greeting.

"How ya feeling?"

I wonder briefly how I should respond to that question, but nothing appropriate comes to mind. Warrick's smile seems forced, and he has that little crease between his eyebrows too, like Grissom. My eyes, which are still having difficulty focusing for longer than a few seconds, zero in on that crease.

"Glad to see you awake," he says, brightly, also like Grissom. He grabs my hand, squeezes, but doesn't let go. His face goes through a series of contortions that probably fall under the category of "Warrick trying to think of what to say," or maybe, "Warrick trying not to cry." Probably the latter.

"Look, man, I--uh--"

Yep, definitely the latter because he's biting his lip now. He has my hand in a death grip, but I don't really mind. I need the connection.

He tries again to speak, voice cracking, "It's just--I just--"

But I don't get to hear what he is about to say, because at that moment the door swings open and my mom sweeps in. Warrick drops my hand and steps back. I see him sniffle and wipe his face before my mom eclipses my view.

"Nicky, honey. I'm so happy to see you're all right! How are you feeling? Are you all right?" She looks around at Warrick as if he might try to hurt me. When she turns back to me, her smile is hopeful. She's hoping that I'll just say everything's fine, I realize. In my mom's world, if you say things are fine, then they are fine. Wish your problems away.

She's waiting for an answer, I guess, but I can't even remember what the question was. After a moment, her smile falters a little. "Sorry I wasn't here when you woke up earlier. I had to go with your father to the airport. He had to get back home, dear. The trial, you know," she finishes vaguely. Of course, the trial. There's always a trial. God forbid the Great Judge Stokes should interrupt the proceedings of the Almighty Criminal Justice System with his trivial family issues.

Why my mom had to "go with" him to the airport is beyond me. He is perfectly capable of taking a taxi to the airport on his own. My guess is that she didn't want to be left behind in the hospital alone. My mother has always been much too dependent on my father for guidance and approval. My sister Elizabeth used to joke that the reason they had so many kids is that my mom didn't know how to say "no" to my dad.

Mom is stroking my arm now, lightly, in a way that feels a lot like ants walking on my skin. I shiver involuntarily and clench my jaw, and the beeping of the monitor cranks up a notch.

"Nicky, sweetie, calm down. What's wrong, honey?" Her eyes dart accusingly to Warrick, who has backed into the corner of the room, as if he might be the source of my anxiety.

I want to tell her that I'm fine, there's nothing wrong, but for some reason the words won't come out of my mouth. So instead I push her hand away from my arm and concentrate on controlling my breathing. After a moment the beeping slows again, enough to satisfy my mom. Enough to make her believe that everything is fine. The hopeful smile returns. "I'm sure you're just tired, honey." She starts stroking my hair now. When she leans in to kiss me on my forehead, I smell alcohol on her breath. I had thought she was done with that.

"I have to go back home tomorrow. My roses need me, you know."

She pauses, apparently waiting for me to make a comment about her roses, but I have nothing to say on that subject. My hand comes up to scratch at my itchy face.

"Nicky, stop scratching, dear," my mom chides. "You don't want scars, do you?

My fingers freeze and my hand drops back to my side. I have to force it to stay down. My mom is big on avoiding scars.

"Do you want to come home with me, dear?"

Hell, no, I think. My lips press together and I shake my head, jerkily. The smile disappears, but her voice is still hopeful. "We could keep better track of you if you were at home, Nick."

I shake my head again.

"Why not, honey? After your little--incident, you need a break from all this." Her eyes sweep around the room, lighting on Warrick briefly and then moving on as if he's a piece of garbage, one of the things that I "need a break from."

I want to yell at her, that my friends, that my life here are not a worthless distraction, an unfortunate detour from the happy, successful life I was always destined for. The life of a district attorney, perhaps, or a doctor. The life of a Golden Boy, the one I was never quite able to attain.

Of course, I don't yell at my mom. My mom is not the type of person you yell at. Yelling only makes things worse. Instead I bite my lip, close my eyes, and shake my head one more time. I keep my eyes closed until she steps back from the bed, not wanting to see the expression on her face. I know what it will be. It's the same expression I saw when I told her I was moving away: Disappointment. With a capital D.

"I can see I'm not getting through to you, Nick. You are just as stubborn as ever."

This is an attempt to make me feel guilty, and I know it. I don't take the bait.

"Fine, stay here with your. . . your friends and your job that's so important to you."

I'd like to say something to her, something to defend my friends and justify my existence, but the lump has returned in my throat and I can't speak.

"I love you, Nicky," she says, in a wounded voice, and the implication is obvious--'even if you don't love me back.' There is silence for a moment, while she waits for me to respond, but I have nothing to say. Do I love my mom? Of course I do, but not in the way she expects, and nothing I say can change her expectations. I'll always be a Disappointment to her.

After a moment of silence, I hear her heels click on the hard floor, then the door opens and closes. I keep my eyes shut tight.

Footsteps again, then I feel the warmth of Warrick's hand on mine. "She's gone," he says, with a note of amusement in his voice. I open one eye and give him a wry smile.

"Look, Nick--" the amusement is gone from his voice, replaced by raw emotion. His eyes squint, lips twist. "I wanted to say--" he breaks off, choked up. Wanted to say what, I wonder. That he's glad it wasn't him in that box? But once again he's interrupted before he can finish, by the door opening again. I bite my lip, afraid it's my mom, back to try once again to bully me into returning home.

Instead, it's a slight, mousy-looking woman in a white coat. She steps up next to Warrick and smiles at me reassuringly. "Hi, Mr. Stokes. I'm Doctor Jenkins."

I blink at her silently.

"I'd like to examine you, see how the healing process is coming along. Would that be all right?"

I nod hesitantly. Warrick tries to pull away, but I grab his hand and don't let go. The beeping picks up speed. Dr. Jenkins glances briefly at the heart monitor, then smiles at me again. "It won't hurt," she reassures me. "No more needles."

I have a vague recollection of needles, back when I was drifting in and out of awareness. Since I am terrified of needles, I can guess what my reaction must have been, although the details are fuzzy.

"All right, Nick--Can I call you Nick?"

I nod.

"Nick, can you sit up? Maybe your friend . . ."

"Warrick," Warrick supplies helpfully.

"Warrick can help you," the doctor finishes. Warrick slips his arm around my shoulders and raises me up to a sitting position, while Dr. Jenkins helps me swing my legs off the side of the bed. "Comfy?"

I nod again.

I feel her fingers at the back of my neck, untying the gown. As she pulls it down off my shoulders, Warrick gives a low whistle. I follow his eyes down to my left side, which is deeply bruised, almost black, from my shoulder to my waist. So that's why it hurts so much. I still have no recollection as to how that damage occurred.

Dr. Jenkins probes the bruised area with the pads of her fingers. "Does that hurt?"

I look down at my trembling right hand in my lap. I'm not sure why I'm so reluctant to admit that I'm in pain. For some reason it seems very important to be strong.

"Nick?" She says, waiting.

I nod my head, slightly.

"How much does it hurt? On a scale of one to ten."

This requires a verbal answer, but once again words fail me. I can't come up with a number.

"Nick, look at me."

My head comes up and my eyes meet hers. I see sympathy there, maybe even pity. I don't want pity. I say nothing.

"Do you want some pain medication?" she asks quietly.

My head jerks back and forth. No more meds that send me to that half-delirious state of perpetual nightmares.

"Ok, that's fine. You don't have to have the medication." She is watching me with a concerned expression.

"Nick, can you tell me where you are?" I look around. It's a hospital, of course. Why would she even ask a question like that?

"Humor me, please. Tell me where you are."

Ok, fine. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Not even a squeak. I'm getting a little worried now. Why can't I talk?

Her concerned frown deepens. "How about your name. Can you state your name for me?"

I try but the results are the same. Nothing comes out. I grip Warrick's hand harder, and he grips back.

The doctor opens my chart and flips through the pages. She pulls out a pen and writes something on one of the pages. I stare at the pen, at the pattern it makes, trying to figure out what she is writing. Finally she glances up and sees the fear in my eyes. She flashes me that reassuring smile again, which completely fails to reassure me.

"I'm sure it's temporary, Nick. Your speech should return soon." She closes the chart with a snap. "Why don't you rest for a while? I'll come back later."

The lump in my throat has grown, and I'm afraid I'll start crying right there in front of her, but the tears don't come. Maybe they're stuck inside somewhere too, like the words that don't want to come out of my mouth.

"Do you want Warrick to stay?" she is asking, but I barely hear her.

"I'm not going anywhere," Warrick responds before I can nod. Of course I want him to stay. His hand holding mine is the only thing tethering me to sanity right now.

"All right. I'll come see you before you're released."

"Will that be today?" Warrick asks.

"Probably tomorrow. We'll see how things go." She sticks my chart back in the holder at the foot of the bed and slips out with one last smile.

Warrick reaches back, pulls the chair up beside the bed, and sits, without letting go of my hand. "It's just temporary," he says, with a little catch in his voice. I hope he's right.

"Do you need anything?"

For this never to have happened, but there's no way to communicate that, so I just shake my head.

"Ok, just let me know if you do."

Let him know how exactly? Morse code, maybe?

He settles back in the chair, still gripping my hand, and closes his eyes. "Doctor said to rest. Sounds good to me." He opens his eyes to slits and looks at me, so I settle back on the pillow and close my eyes as well. But I don't sleep. Instead I focus on tomorrow--getting out of this place, going home, leaving it all behind me. Things will be better tomorrow.

&&

More to come . . .

While you're waiting, you might as well write another review.


	3. Be Strong

Chapter 3: Be strong

Tomorrow comes, after a night spent pretending to sleep. Dr. Jenkins gives me my "get out of jail free" card, on the condition that I see a psychiatrist. I'm not sure what a psychiatrist is going to do for me. It's not like it's a big mystery why I have problems. I could recite a list of "Crappy things that have happened to me," provided I could talk, that is. Despite Dr. Jenkins' platitudes, speech still ain't happening. And I'm not sure how a psychiatrist can help me if I can't talk to him.

Catherine drives me home. I'm surprised when I get there to find Grissom with an overnight bag. I can't exactly protest, so he fixes me dinner and spends the night on my couch. I go to bed early because the awkward, one-sided small talk is giving me a headache.

The next morning, Grissom drives me to the office of the psychiatrist, Dr. Clarence Clark. On the thirty-minute drive through downtown traffic, he grips the steering wheel unnecessarily hard and makes more uncomfortable small talk. I nod my head in the right places, but I'm thinking that I'm glad the doctor is a man because I don't exactly want to break down and confess all my problems to a woman. It doesn't fit the façade of strength that I'm trying to rebuild for myself.

When we get to the office, I make out, through the lens of gray that still seems to cloud my vision, that the walls are some kind of pastel and there are fresh flowers on the table in the waiting room. Grissom tells my name to the receptionist, a perky blond wearing too much makeup, while I look around. I wonder if Dr. Clark does his own decorating, if he picked out the rose-patterned furniture and "Better Homes and Gardens" magazines.

"Mr. Stokes, Dr. Clark is ready for you now," the perky blond chirps with a 1,000-watt smile. "Right through that door."

Grissom sits down on one of the flowered chairs and picks up a magazine. "I'll be right here," he says.

I stare at the door for a moment. It's plain brown, with a little framed sign that says "Welcome!" surrounded by flowers. Doesn't look too scary. I reach out a hand that still trembles, and open the door.

"Nick, come on in," says a pleasant voice. "I'm Doctor Clark." I'm surprised to find that "Clarence" is a woman, with skin the color of strong coffee and fingernails painted blood red. At least that explains the decorating scheme in the lobby. When she holds her hand out to me I take it,and try to shake it firmly. Her hands are warm and dry, her grip firm.

"Please sit down," she says, so I sit in one of a matching pair of overstuffed chairs in front of her desk. She sits in the desk chair and opens a laptop computer. "Dr. Jenkins sent me your file." She gestures at a plain manila folder, at least an inch thick, lying on her desk. I stare at the file, swallowing hard, wondering what it says about me. When I look up, Dr. Clark is watching me closely.

"You can read it, if you like."

I nod casually, not wanting to seem too eager. Her perfectly manicured fingers hover over the file for a second, and then she says, "How about I have Colleen make you a copy, when we're finished today?"

I nod again. I'd rather have a copy I can read at home, at my leisure, in privacy. Of course, she's already read all the information in there anyway.

"Do you want to know what I found out?"

I nod slowly.

"You were buried alive without food or water for almost twelve hours. Fire ants swarmed you and nearly ate you alive."

I flinch at the blunt description. This is the first time anyone has talked to me about my little "incident", and now my mind is filling in the details.

"Am I right so far?"

I nod, blinking away the mental pictures that her words have dredged up.

"Your friends found you just in time. There was a bomb under the box you were buried in. When they pulled you out, it exploded and sent you flying into the air. When you landed you cracked three ribs."

So that's where the bruising on my side came from. I have absolutely no recollection of this part.

"You spent three days in the hospital. For the first day and half you were semi-conscious. Since you woke up you have been unable to speak." She watches my face intently. "Did I miss anything?"

I shake my head hesitantly. As far as my memory goes, her recitation seems fairly complete.

"The reason you came to me is to try to figure out why you can't talk." Her voice is very serious. I nod.

"There might be a number of reasons. I'm going to ask you some yes/no questions to try to figure it out. First of all, do you have a history of anxiety disorders?"

I shake my head no. Her fingers tap on the keys of her computer.

"Depression?"

Another no. More tapping. I shift in my chair uncomfortably, itchy but determined not to scratch at the partially healed ant bites.

"Have you ever suffered from a speech disorder?"

No. If anything it's always been the opposite. I talk too much, get myself into trouble with my mouthiness.

"Have you had any previous traumatic events that I should know about?"

I hesitate, wondering how she defines traumatic events.

"I'll take that as a yes," she says with a small smile. "You came in with someone. Is that your father?"

I shake my head quickly. Grissom is not my father, although I sometimes find myself treating him like he is.

"A friend?"

I shrug, and then nod slowly. I guess Grissom is my friend.

"Does he know about the past trauma?"

I nod. He knows about one of them, anyway.

"Do you mind if I talk to him about it?"

I look down at my hands. Do I really want her to know what happened to me, about the stalker in my attic? What else does Grissom know about me?

"Nick? I won't talk to him unless you give me permission."

I stare at my trembling hands for a moment longer, and then decide, if it will help figure out what's wrong, help get me back on the track to normal, then I'm willing to do it. I give her a small nod.

"Ok, I'll talk to him when we're done. Just a few more questions. Are you having nightmares?"

Another nod.

"Are they disturbing your sleep?"

My head bobs up and down quickly. I haven't slept more than about an hour in the past two nights, mainly because I'm afraid of the images that flood my mind the second I close my eyes.

She pulls a notepad out of her drawer, along with a pen. "I'm going to give you a prescription for Paxil. It's an anti-anxiety medication. Should help you sleep." She scribbles on her pad and rips off the top sheet. "At this point, it's very difficult to pin-point why you are unable to speak. It seems obvious to me that it's related to the trauma you suffered, but exactly how is hard to say. You may be suffering from a condition known as selective mutism, which is actually an anxiety disorder."

She hands me the paper and I take it automatically, barely glancing at it. I'm wondering how I can have "selective" mutism when I'm sure I didn't "select" to be this way.

"There also might be something organically amiss with your speech mechanism. You apparently inhaled a significant amount of dirt, which may have damaged your larynx. We'll have to run some tests to rule that out." She writes on the pad again and hands me the page. "I'm referring you to Dr. LaMer. He's a voice specialist who can take some pictures of your vocal folds and determine if there's any damage."

I stare at the prescription, thinking about what kind of organic damage could take away the power of speech. The thing is, I remember talking to Grissom, right before they took the lid off of that box. He made me promise something, I remember that clearly. I said it out loud. So whatever took away my speech must have happened after the lid came off.

"All right, Nick. I think we're done for today. You can wait in the lobby while I talk to your friend."

Wait a minute, she's going to talk to him alone? I'm not sure if I want her to talk to him alone. Grissom knows an awful lot about me. What if he tells her something that contaminates her opinion of me?

Dr. Clark smiles at me, a genuine smile full of warmth. "Whatever he tells me, I'll pass it on to you at our next session, deal?"

I shrug and nod. She picks up my file off the desk and follows me out to the lobby.

"Colleen," she says, handing the file to the receptionist. "Can you please copy this for Mr. Stokes?"

"Can do!" Colleen responds brightly and disappears into the back room with my file.

Dr. Clark turns to Grissom, who is standing next to his chair. "I'm Doctor Clark," she says, hand out.

Grissom looks surprised, but recovers in time to shake her hand. "Gil Grissom."

"Mr. Stokes has given me permission to talk to you for a few minutes. Do you mind?"

"Ah, no, not at all." Grissom is looking at me curiously, but I studiously avoid his eye.

"Right this way, then." She disappears back into her office, and Grissom follows, with a backward glance at me. I sink down into a chair to wait, staring at the pastel walls.

In a few minutes, Colleen returns with my file. She slips my copies into a new file folder and hands it to me with a smile and an enthusiastic "Here you go!" When I don't say anything, her smile falters a little, and after an awkward moment she goes back to her desk, heels clicking on the hard floor.

I hold the plain manila folder in both hands and stare at it, intently. There is information inside that might help me understand my situation. But I'm afraid to open it. On some level, I'm not sure I want to understand my situation. I'm afraid I "can't handle the truth." With a small sigh, I stuff the folder under my arm without opening it. Maybe I'll look at it later. I'm not ready yet.

After a while Grissom returns and we head back to my house, with a short detour by the pharmacy. He makes more pointless, painful small talk. I wish I could tell him to stop trying so hard, because it's not helping.

&

More coming soon. . . maybe Christmas Eve, if I get a spare minute.

Now it's time to review again.


	4. Videostroboscopy

Hey, Look! Two chapters for the price of one! It's a little Christmas miracle!

Author's note: I realize I've been a little hard on Catherine in this chapter. I really do like her character, she just seems like the type of person who doesn't put up with any nonsense. And keep in mind, the whole story is written through the filter of Nick's perceptions. So blame him. :-)

By the way, I have no idea whether they have "In-N-Out" Burger in Las Vegas. We don't have them here (the Pacific Northwest), but I've been to them in California. Anyway, it's not important. On with the story.

&&

Chapter 4: Videostroboscopy

I put the file in my nightstand without opening it. Sleep doesn't come. Instead I lie awake, trying not to scratch, staring at the ceiling until the gray light of dawn washes over me and drowns out the nightlight that I keep burning.

Catherine comes over after breakfast. As soon as she arrives, Grissom's face lights up. His bag is already packed and waiting by the front door. I'm sure he can't wait to get away from me.

Catherine drives me to the voice specialist, which is outside of town. Dr. LaMer's office is very posh--cream-colored walls, oak furniture, expensive artwork intermixed with dozens of plaques listing awards and professional affiliations. I wander around and examine the awards and diplomas while Catherine checks me in.

There are several people ahead of us, so we have a while to wait. Catherine picks up an "Architectural Digest" off the table, smiles at me, and starts to read. At least she doesn't fill the air with pointless chatter.

I try to read a fancy cooking magazine, but I'm having trouble concentrating. My eyes stay glued to the page, but really I'm wondering how Dr. LaMer plans to "take pictures of my vocal folds" and whether it involves sticking a camera down my throat.

After forty minutes, during which Catherine checks her watch at least a dozen times, my name is finally called by an impossibly young woman wearing an improbable nose ring. I grab Catherine's hand and drag her along with me into the small, claustrophobic exam room, of which one side is packed with electronic equipment of unknown function. As soon as we get into the room Catherine drops my hand and gently pushes me into a chair.

The young woman introduces herself as "Marci", a student, and proceeds to ask me a list of questions. She doesn't seem to understand that I can't talk, keeps asking me the same questions over and over, using different words, exaggerated intonation, slower rate. I stare at my hands so I don't have to see the exasperation on her freckled face.

Marci: Can you tell me about your vocal hygiene habits?

Me:

Marci: For example, how much water do you drink in a day?

Me:

Finally Catherine takes pity on me and steps in. She translates Marci's questions into yes/no form, and I nod or shake my head at the appropriate times, while I sneak fearful glances at the wall of equipment.

After what seems like a very long time, the door opens and a middle-aged man, tall and muscular with wavy dark hair graying at the temples, enters. "I'm sorry to interrupt, Marci," he says with an affable smile.

"No problem, Alex," Marci responds tightly, stuffing her pages of notes into a file folder. "We were just finished." She stands and walks out without another word, handing him the file folder on the way out the door.

"You must be Nick," Dr. LaMer says to me, hand out. I shake his hand, trying to match his firm grip, and he turns to Catherine.

"And you are?" he says to her, hand outstretched.

"Catherine Willows, a friend," she responds, smiling, with a note in her voice that I recognize as flirting.

The examination turns out to be just as horrible as I had imagined. The camera is at the end of a pole that Dr. LaMer sticks straight back in my throat. In between making lighthearted banter with Catherine, he tries to get me to make voice sounds, but all I can do is gag and choke on the camera. Finally he gives up and pulls the pole out of my mouth with a grimace.

"What's your opinion, Alex?" Catherine asks with her eyes just a little too wide, voice a little too breathy. I decide that I hate her.

"Well, it was difficult to tell because he wasn't able to produce any voice." The doctor is talking to Catherine almost exclusively, with an occasional glance in my direction. "There was some irritation of the lining of the trachea, but I didn't see any polyps or cysts, and I was able to observe some movement of the vocal folds when he coughed, so there doesn't appear to be any paralysis."

"So that's good news?" she asks,

"As far as the larynx goes, I suppose it is. However," now the doctor turns to me, smiling, "there is still the question of why you are having difficulty speaking."

I nod. That is exactly the question I was hoping he could help me answer.

Dr. LaMer crosses to his desk, pulls out a piece of paper and a pen. "Look, Nick, there are a number of interdependent systems involved in speech production." He props his clipboard on his knee and sketches a series of circles connected by arrows. Words go in the circles, such as "Conceptualization," "Linearization" and "Lexical access".

"Now," he shoots a quick smile at Catherine, who is leaning over his shoulder. "All of these systems are controlled by various parts of the brain, and all are interconnected. If a breakdown occurs at any point, the rest of the chain will be affected, disrupting speech production."

"So are you saying there might be something else wrong?" Catherine asks breathily.

"It's possible that Nick" (he's not even talking to me anymore) "suffered some sort of neurological damage during the incident which is disrupting his ability to speak."

The words "Neurological Damage" catch my attention. He's talking about a stroke, brain damage. My grandpa had a stroke when I was ten; he never spoke again. I stare at the diagram, trying to make sense of the overlapping arrows. Fear sneaks up behind me and blows an icy breath down my neck. I desperately want to grab Catherine's hand, to feel connected, but all of her attention is directed at the doctor. I let their easy banter flow over me without hearing it.

When I focus in again, Dr. LaMer is saying something about a CT scan. He scribbles on a prescription pad and hands the page to Catherine. Then he smiles at me and hands me the diagram. "The CT scan will just help up rule out organic damage, Nick. Nothing to worry about."

&

On the way back to my house, Catherine decides we should go through a drive thru for lunch.

Catherine: Do you like burgers or chicken?

Me:

Catherine: Or you could get a salad. Which would you prefer?

Me:

She sighs. "Ok, let's take this one at a time. Burger?"

I shrug. I don't really care what I eat. It all tastes like cardboard anyway. I stare at the doctor's diagram, trembling in my hands.

Catherine makes an exasperated noise. "Fine, you're getting a burger." She stops by In-n-Out, and orders me a cheeseburger with the works, fries, and a Coke, without asking for any more input from me. For herself she gets a salad and Diet Coke.

She hands me the bag of food, but I just put it down on the seat and keep studying the diagram. Neurological damage, I think. Brain damage. The little circles and arrows swim on the page. I clench my teeth, hard, working my jaw back and forth until it hurts. I picture little dead brain cells, floating around in gray jelly, their dendrites shriveled, synapses disconnected.

Catherine doesn't talk to me the rest of the way home. I can't say I blame her.

&

Before you move on to the next chapter, take a moment to throw a poor author a bone (aka review).


	5. Color of Blood

Author's Note: Now for the bonus chapter. Chock full o' Warrick Angst, because sherryw and sokerfreek922 seem to like that sort of thing.

&

Chapter 5: The color of blood

I'm sitting on my bed, cross-legged, still staring at Dr. LaMer's drawing, scratching a bite mark on my wrist, when Catherine sticks her head in.

Catherine: I've got to go now. Warrick will be here in a few minutes. He called to say he's running late.

Me:

"Is that all right? Do you mind being alone for a few minutes? Do you want me to stay?"

I lie and shake my head. What I want is for her to come over and sit down beside me. I want her to hold my hand and tell me it'll be all right. I'm drifting, and I need a connection, an anchor, but I don't know how to tell her that.

She smiles at me and heads out, door clicking shut behind her. I wander out to the living room and pick up my laptop from my desk, take it back to the bed. I open the cover, turn the computer on. It hums and whirs reassuringly.

When the boot-up cycle is finished, I double-click on Word and open up a new document. The blank white page stares at me, cursor blinking silently. If I can't speak, maybe I can type.

But what should I type? My brain feels as blank and empty as the screen. My fingers hover over the keys, but I can't get them to type anything. Finally I grit my teeth and force myself to hit a key, then another, but it's gibberish. Meaningless, like my existence.

I sit and stare at the screen until it grays out, then with a burst of frustration I slam the lid shut. I toss the computer down on the bed, and jump up, energized by the surge of emotion. I prowl around the room, aimlessly, breathing hard, looking for something to smash. I'm suddenly very aware of colors around me, the red of my bedside lamp, vivid yellow stripes in the bedspread.

I grab the bedside lamp, hand raised to throw it, but instead I let it drop onto the bed and sink down beside it. As I sit staring at the lamp, my brief flare of anger burns out as quickly as it came, leaving me emptier than before. The world around me fades back to gray like the computer screen.

I'm not sure how long I sit staring at the lamp before I hear a knock, and then the sound of my front door opening.

"Nick? It's Warrick," he calls. I set the lamp back onto the nightstand, quickly fold the doctor's diagram and stuff it in the drawer. I hear his footsteps down the hall, and then a knock on my bedroom door.

Warrick: Nick? You in there, buddy?

Me:

The door opens and Warrick sticks his head in. "Hey, there you are, Man. You all right?"

I nod my head. Another lie.

"You want some dinner?"

I shake my head.

"Ok, maybe later." He is watching me closely. I try to stare back, but can't quite maintain the eye contact. "You sure you're all right?"

I lie again with a nod. Yep, everything's just peachy.

He doesn't buy it. He comes over to the bed and notices the computer. "You checking your e-mail?"

I start to nod, then turn it into a headshake halfway through.

"What does that mean, man?" he says with a grin. He picks up the laptop and starts to open it, but I grab it away. I don't want him to see my failed attempt at typing. Nick the failure. The Screw-up. As always.

"Hey, what's going on? Nick?"

I can feel the anger starting to build in my chest again. Color returns to my world. I need to smash something. I drop the computer on my bed and leap up, hands curled into fists. "Calm down," Warrick says, but I don't want to be calm. I want to smash something, anything.

I put my fist through the wall. It hurts, bad. It hurts good. I cock my fist back to smash the wall again, but before I can deliver the blow, I feel Warrick's fingers curl around my wrist, holding me back. Like a dog straining at the end of the leash, I pull against his grip, but he doesn't let me go.

"Nick, stop it!" he commands me sharply. I ignore him, yank away and slam my fist into the wall again, A bright red smear of blood stains the blue paint now, and I'm fixated by it. I raise my fist to strike again.

"Nick--please. . ." Warrick's voice breaks, which draws my attention more than the shouting. The red smear fades to a sort of grayish brown, and I tear my eyes away from it long enough to glance at him. His lip is trembling, eyes filled with tears. Warrick is crying.

Such a realization would typically bring me to tears as well, but my eyes are dry. I can't cry anymore. Vaguely I wonder why. I've always cried easily, which has been a source of endless embarrassment. But since they pulled me from the ground, I haven't shed one tear.

I allow Warrick to lead me out to the living room and sit me down on the couch. He disappears to the kitchen and returns holding a dishtowel and an icepack.

Wrapping the pack in the towel, he sits down beside me and takes my right hand. His palms are warm but his fingers are cold from the ice. "Here you go, buddy," he says softly. He gently places the wrapped icepack on my rapidly swelling knuckles. I stare at the dishtowel, trying to remember what color the stripes are. They might be green.

I slowly become aware of the pain from my bruised knuckles, a sharp throbbing that matches the pounding of my heart. With each heartbeat, each pulse of pain, the colors brighten and fade. The stripes are blue.

One hand still holding mine, Warrick slips an arm around my shoulders. He is warm and alive and solid, an anchor. I lean into him, stealing heat.

"Nicky, I--I just wanted to say--" He breaks off, but continues after a moment. "I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, for what happened. I can't tell you--I'm just so sorry, man."

He sniffles, so I know he's still crying. I don't cry. I don't even acknowledge his tears. Instead I silently stare at the dishtowel, watching the stripes go from gray to blue and back again.

&

The next day, Sara takes me to the neurologist, at Desert Palms. She seems even more uncomfortable than Grissom, making pointless comments, interrupting herself, fiddling with the radio. When we finally arrive, the obvious relief on her face is almost comical.

We have to go in the main entrance to get to the neurology department. The memories are so strong as we enter the building that I grab Sara's hand and hold on. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't let go, either. I'm grateful.

She holds my hand until we get to the check-in desk for neurology. I'm surprised to see Dr. Jenkins, the mousy doc who saw me in the hospital before, come around the corner.

"Hi, Nick," she says with a small smile. "I'm your doctor of record here, so they called me in to consult on the CT scan."

They send me to a little exam room and make me change into a hospital gown for the scan, which I don't understand. They're taking pictures of my head, so why do I have to take my clothes off? Sara hands me the gown with a chuckle and leaves me to change alone.

I sit on the exam table and stare at the gown for a long time. I consider just walking out, leaving this all behind. Maybe I don't want to know if there's something wrong with my brain. Maybe I prefer to live in ignorance.

A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts. "Nick, hurry up!" comes Sara's voice. "The doctors are waiting."

I quickly change, fold my clothes neatly on the chair and go out to meet Sara in the hall. A couple of very young doctors in sparkling white lab coats are standing with her, clipboards in hand. They nod at me and each other. One looks at my bandaged hand then immediately starts writing on his clipboard. I feel like I'm in a baggie labeled "evidence". Nick the DNA sample. Or maybe more like a lab rat. They're here to watch me run through the maze.

A scruffily-bearded young man, who introduces himself as "Mike the CT tech," leads me into a brightly lit room. I stare at the CT machine. I've seen one before, but I had forgotten the part about sliding into a tube--a narrow tube, confining. I'm not sure about that part.

Mike says, "Just lie down on the table, Mr. --uh--" he consults his chart. "Mr. Stokes."

With a glance at Sara, I obey. She has seen me eying that tube, I'm sure, because she gives me a small smile that I guess is supposed to be reassuring. Dr. Jenkins, wearing an identical smile, gives me thumbs up before they all troop out.

"All you have to do is lay still, man," Mike says on his way out the door. "We'll take care of the rest.

Lying still turns out to be more difficult than anticipated. I'm fine for the first few minutes, as long as I can see the ceiling beyond the tube. But once the inside of the tube fills my vision, I feel a panic coming on. It starts with a cold sweat rising in my lower back and creeps up to my neck. I need to get out of here.

I try to control the panic, fight it down, but I can't help squirming. The intercom crackles and then Mike's voice comes on. "Please lay still, Mr. Stokes," he says.

There are sparkles in front of my eyes now. My skin crawls with thousands of tiny feet. I know they're not real, but my body reacts anyway. More squirming.

"Mr. Stokes, we can't complete the scan if --"

Mike is interrupted by Sara's acid voice. "What's wrong with you people? Don't you know his history?"

I hear a door open and close, and then a warm hand grabs mine. Sara's voice floats up from the vicinity of my knees. "It's all right, Nicky. You're going to be fine. They're almost done."

I squeeze her hand tightly and close my eyes. Almost done, almost done, almost done. Get me out of here. Oh, God, please get me out of here.

By the time they finally haul me out, I'm covered in sweat and shaking hard. Sara gently disengages her hand and rubs it; I can see the red marks from my fingers.

"Are you all right?" she asks me, but I'm shaking too hard to answer. When she touches my shoulder, I flinch.

Sara has to help me get dressed. I can't even button my own jeans or tie my shoes because of the tremors. I'm humiliated, but she does it very matter-of-factly, without making eye contact. I cling to her hand on the way out to the car, walking slowly so I don't lose my footing. A few minutes in the CT machine has set me back nearly a week, to where I was when I first woke up. I hate the helpless feeling, being so needy. I want to be me again. The old me. Happy, confident, talkative Nick. But that Nick seems to be still buried somewhere, and I can't get to him.

&

Next chapter coming soon. . .


	6. Floodgates

Author's Note: Rereading this chapter I realize that I haven't been very nice to Sara either. Oy Vey. I suppose it's because I see her as someone who doesn't handle other people's emotions very well. Of course, I could be wrong. :-)

By the way, thank you all for your kind reviews! Here is the penultimate chapter. Final chapter should be posted by Thursday.

-&-

Chapter 6: Floodgates

Sara hangs around the rest of the day, reading my magazines, hogging the T.V. remote. I don't really mind. I can't concentrate long enough to really watch T.V. anyway. Sara channel-surfs like a maniac, pausing on each station only long enough to hear a few words, then she's on to the next. Finally she jabs the power button and tosses the remote onto the couch.

"So, whaddya want for dinner?" she asks me suddenly. I blink at her.

She shoots me a look that says she's annoyed, but I don't know why. "You know, dinner. That meal at the end of the day."

There is a long stretch of silence.

Sara: How about Chinese food?

Me: (small shrug)

Sara: Mexican? Italian? What about pizza?

I shrug again. I don't really care what I eat anymore.

Her voice rises. "Come on, Nick! Give me a little feedback here."

I stare at her, wishing I knew what to do to make her happy. She jumps up and stalks to the kitchen, returning with a notepad and pen.

"Fine, you don't wanna talk. Then write something down, for Crissake! Just give me something!"

She shoves the notepad and pen into my hand. I put the tip of the pen to the paper, but get no further. I can't write any more than I could type. I try to force the pen to move, but it stays stubbornly still.

I squeeze the pen harder and harder, until finally it breaks with a sharp "snap". Ink spurts over my hand. Anger rises in my chest and the ink turns from gray to red. Jerking my hand back, I fling the pen at the wall, where it explodes in a shower of crimson, splattering the counter and floor.

"Nick!" Sara shouts at me. "Nick!"

I stare at the wall, mesmerized by the bright red splatter, like arterial spray. Sara grabs me by the shoulders and yanks me around to face her.

"What is wrong with you!" she screams in my face. "Talk to me! Why won't you talk to me!

I freak. Tearing away from her grasp with a strangled cry, I sprint down the hallway, with no particular destination in mind. The bathroom door is open so I dart in, slamming the door shut behind me. My fingers fumble with the lock. I can't see it clearly, something is wrong with my eyes.

As soon as the door is locked, I slam my back against the wall, fists clenched, and slide down into the small space between the sink and tub. My chest is heaving, shoulders shuddering with every breath. I feel a sob force its way up through my throat, and then the tears come, a torrent of sobs that won't stop. I can't even catch my breath I'm crying so hard.

My thoughts jump incoherently from one topic to another. Everything is all jumbled up. I feel the ants again, the gun against my jaw; I see Warrick's face, distorted through the plexiglass, then he is gone; bright light in my eyes, dim green of the glowsticks, big D Disappointment on my mom's face, gum in my ears, a muzzleflash. The images swirl in my mind, appearing and disappearing before I can fix on anything.

Dimly I hear Sara's voice through the door. "Nick, I'm sorry."

I continue to sob uncontrollably, pounding my already bruised fists against my knees, the tub, the cabinet. "Nick!" she calls again. "Nicky, please, open the door."

After a moment her voice trails off to silence. I have a disjointed thought--Don't leave me alone! But I can't get up, I have lost control of my legs.

I hear a scratching noise at the door, then a series of clicks. "Nick, I'm coming in," Sara says.

The door swings open, and Sara's shadow falls over me. I cover my face with my arms and don't look at her. She kneels down in front of me, puts her hands on mine. "I'm so sorry," she says quietly.

I cry and cry. All the tears that were locked inside since the incident force their way out through my shattered floodgates. Sara holds me wordlessly while I cry myself out.

-&-

Finally the tears dry up. I seem to have no liquid left in my body, I've cried it all out. Sara hands me a damp washcloth and I wipe my face, grateful for the coolness against my skin.

In the end, she orders Chinese food for dinner. She makes a couple of awkward comments while I choke down a few bites, then falls silent. I go to bed immediately after dinner, escaping as quickly as possible.

I hope that tonight I'll be able to sleep. I'm certainly exhausted enough. My eyes still burn and my head aches from my tears. But sleep is as elusive as ever.

After nearly an hour of staring at the ceiling, I hear Sara's muffled voice, talking on her cell phone. I can't make out what she's saying. A morbid curiosity overcomes my innate feelings of guilt at eavesdropping, so I creep from the bed and put my ear against the door. Her voice is a little clearer now; I can understand about half of what she's saying.

". . . made him cr. . . know I don't handle it very well when. . . just being stubborn. . . think he's doing it on purp. . . I saw the CT. . . was fine. . . there's nothing. . .he could talk if. . .I don't know why!"

Her voice rises on the last phrase, then suddenly drops off. "Just a second. . ." I hear her say, then her footsteps fade away. She has moved out of earshot.

I lie back down on my bed and ponder what she said. Did she mean there was nothing wrong on the CT? That would be good news, of course. On the other hand, that means I still don't know what's causing my silence. Despite Sara's assertions, I'm pretty sure I'm not doing it on purpose.

With these thoughts swirling through my head, I finally drift off to sleep, only to wake up some time later, gasping and pushing at the lid of my box. A box which, of course, disappears as soon as I open my eyes. I sit up in bed, pushing my trembling hand through my sweaty hair as I wait for the vision to fade.

Finally I lie back down and sleep again, and again wake up sweating and trembling. After the third time, I give it up as pointless. I'm not going to get any more sleep tonight.

With a sigh I drag myself from my bed and check the clock. Nearly three a.m. Great. I still have hours before daylight. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and pad barefoot to the bathroom, where I splash water on my face, and take a good, hard look at myself in the mirror. The bite marks have nearly all faded, except a few that will probably scar. They barely even itch anymore.

My eyes, on the other hand, are encircled with dark smudges, and my cheekbones stand out starkly in my pale skin. I look skeletal. I've seen D.B.s that look more lifelike.

My eyes light on the bottle of pills that Dr. Clark gave me. I took one before bedtime, but now I'm suddenly thinking that a few more won't hurt.

I shake several of the little pills out into my hand and stare at them. Might be nice, not to have to think, not to have to feel this crappy anymore. My mind follows that thought to its logical conclusion: that I'd end up back in a box, buried underground again. Not a pleasant notion. I quickly return the pills to the bottle and set it back down on the counter. The easy way out doesn't seem quite so easy anymore.

Still clutching the blanket around my shoulders, I shuffle down the hall to the living room. Sara is stretched out on the couch on her stomach, sound asleep with the TV still on, muted. I stare at her for a moment, feeling an irrational surge of jealousy at how peaceful she looks. I can't remember ever sleeping that deeply or serenely.

After several minutes, I lie down on the floor in front of the coffee table, pulling the blanket in tighter around my shoulders. The blue light from the TV makes everything look a little surreal, so I try to concentrate on that instead of the fears that crowd in around me. It's a long wait until daylight.

-&-

Grissom comes over about noon the next day. Sara seems to know he's coming, but his sudden arrival is a surprise to me. I wonder if maybe they think that since I can't talk, I can't hear or understand either, so they just don't tell me anything.

Grissom and Sara talk quietly in the kitchen for a few minutes, while I sit on the couch with the TV on the Nature Channel, and try not to eavesdrop. I think she must have been talking to him last night on the phone, in the conversation that I overheard. I wish they would talk to me, really talk to me, not just meaningless chatter. But nobody seems willing to talk to me about the "incident", or how I'm coping. They all just walk on eggshells around me, as if I'm fragile. Maybe I am fragile. Maybe they know something I don't.

After a while, Grissom comes in and sits beside me, his face completely expressionless. I wonder what he's thinking, like I always do. Grissom has always been a complete mystery to me.

Sara gathers her stuff quickly and scoots out the door with a hurried, "Bye" thrown over her shoulder. As soon as she's gone, Grissom picks up the remote and switches the TV off. I blink at him.

Grissom: Let's try to communicate, huh?

Me:

Grissom: I know you can't talk, and Sara told me you weren't able to write. But what about signing?

Me:

He quirks a half-smile at me. "Haven't tried that yet, have you?"

I shake my head. I don't even know any signs, beyond a few rude gestures that I'm pretty sure are not what he's talking about.

"Ok, then, are you willing to give it a try?"

I shrug carefully. I'm wary of failing and looking like an idiot, again, in front of Grissom. On the other hand, my need to please him is greater than my fear of failure. God, I'm like a puppy! Why do I always act this way around Grissom?

Grissom favors me with a half-smile again, his version of an enthusiastic grin, and raises his hands. "Let's start with your name. N is like this." He makes a fist, his first two fingers folded over his thumb. After a moment I copy him, awkwardly.

"Great! Here is how to make the I, C, and K." He makes them quickly, too fast for me to follow, then smiles at me expectantly. I try to imitate what I think I saw, but I can't get it straight. His smile morphs into a frown. I feel a flash of irritation at him. What does he expect of me, anyway? Or maybe I'm just irritated at myself, for my inability to live up to his expectations.

"Maybe that's too much. Just do this." He makes the N again, and puts the right fist against his left shoulder. "That can be a name sign for now. We can think of a better one later."

I'm not sure if there will be a later, at least not for sign language, but Grissom seems enthusiastic, so I let it ride.

"Ok, how about 'My name is Nick.' Let's try that." He put his palm flat on his chest. "My" he says with a nod at me.

I copy the motion, palm flat on my chest. I can feel the pounding of my heart. I know what I'm afraid of--failure. Screwing up in front of Grissom.

He puts out the first two fingers of each hand and taps them together. "Name." I obediently tap my fingers together. His grin widens.

He makes the N and puts it against his shoulder. "Nick." I fold my fingers over my thumb and touch it to my shoulder. Grissom is sporting a full smile now. "You did it!" he exclaims. "Now, do it again. By yourself."

I freeze. Copying Grissom is one thing, but it was just hand movements. Meaningless. I can't get my hands to move on their own. I stare at them in frustration.

"Remember? Start with 'my'." He puts his palm against his chest. My hand comes up automatically to copy. My heart is racing now, because I know that I'm about to Disappoint Grissom again.

I screw my eyes shut, hand still against my chest, and try to remember what comes next, but it's just blankness. I feel Grissom's hands take mine, moving my fingers for the next word. I pull away, stiffly. I can't do it.

"Nick. . ."

I don't look at him. I don't want to see the Disappointment in his eyes. I ball my hands into fists and slam them against my knees in frustration. It hurts, so I do it again, and again. I feel Grissom's fingers around my wrists. "Nick, stop it." His voice is quiet but firm. I can't help but obey, which stills my hands but at the same time increases my irritation.

"Nick, I'm not disappointed in you," he says quietly. "I've never been disappointed in you."

He has my attention now. Obviously he's lying. My head comes up and I glare at him in challenge. His eyes are horribly sad.

"I'm so proud of you, for surviving. You faced a terrible situation and you found a way through it. You saved yourself."

Why is he saying these things? He must know I won't believe him. I'm miserable enough, I don't need him throwing it in my face. I shake my head vigorously.

"I did some research on Pancho," he says abruptly, a complete non-sequiter. "He was the Cisco Kid's screw-up sidekick."

Pancho? What does my father's teasing nickname for me have to do with anything? And how does he even know about that?

"I don't see you that way," Grissom says carefully. "I'm sorry I called you that."

I don't remember Grissom calling me Pancho. Only my father calls me that, ever since I fell out of a tree at age eight, and broke my arm for the third time. I shake my head in annoyed confusion.

"I'm not sorry I made you promise, but I'm sorry I called you Pancho. That's not who you are."

What did he make me promise? Why don't I remember? But it doesn't matter. I shake my head again, harder this time.

"Nick . . ." he starts to say, but then trails off, staring at me in that pensive way of his, that look that always makes me sweat. Not this time.

Still shaking my head, I push his hands away and stand up. I turn and walk down the hall to my bedroom, carefully controlling the urge to put another hole in the wall. I close the door slowly and then stand by it, listening for footsteps following me, but they don't come.

I flop down face first on my bed and put my pillow over my head. My heart is racing, I can hear it in my ears. I grip the pillow in clenched fists. I'm angry at Grissom, but I don't know why. He was only trying to help. I'm the one who screwed up.

I've always believed everything Grissom said. He's Grissom. He knows everything. But not this time. It doesn't matter what Grissom says, because I am Pancho. I've always been Pancho.

-&-

One more chapter to go. . .


	7. Breakout

Chapter 7: Breakout

The next day it's Greg's turn to babysit. He whistles nervously and cracks uneasy jokes while he hustles me out to the car. "You have an appointment with Dr. Clark, remember?"

But I don't remember. I'm not sure I even knew when my next appointment was, and even if I did, I have no idea what day it is today. Plans are made for me without my knowledge, and I just follow along blindly.

I shrug at Greg while buckling my seatbelt, and he laughs, but now he has an upright crease between his eyebrows as well. I stare out the windshield so I won't have to see it.

When Dr. Clark comes out to get me, I see Greg looking her over appreciatively. He's probably jealous that I get to spend time alone with her. Doesn't he know I'd gladly trade places with him?

"How are you feeling?" Dr. Clark asks me once we're settled into our respective chairs. She sits beside me this time, turning her chair to face mine.

I give her a noncommittal shrug and meet her eye briefly. She casts an appraising eye over my face and smiles. "The bite marks look better."

I nod.

"How is the Paxil working for you? Is your sleep better?"

My gaze drops to my lap and I nod slightly.

"Nick?"

I don't look up. Just move on to another subject, please.

"Are you following the dosage instructions?"

I squint and scratch at a partially healed ant bite on my wrist.

"Have you been tempted to take too many?"

I dig at the welt, clawing at it with my ragged nails until it starts to bleed. A bright spot of red appears and I stare at it, fascinated. Dr. Clark grabs a tissue from a box on her desk and puts it in my hand.

"Nick? Have you?"

I shake my head quickly. There is silence for a moment, and when I finally look up, she is watching me carefully. I'm pretty sure that the second I walk out of there she'll be on the phone to the pharmacy, telling them no refills.

Finally she makes a hrumphing noise in her throat and changes the subject. "I got your test results back."

She reaches out to pick up my file up from her desk. My eyes follow her bloodred fingernails, the only spot of color in my gray world.

"The laryngeal evaluation revealed no obvious pathologies, no paralysis, no polyps, no nodules. The CT scan also came back negative. No neurological damage detected."

So what the hell is wrong with me? All these doctors, all these tests, and no one can tell me anything I didn't already know. I'm ready to give it all up.

Dr. Clark: So . . . what have you tried for communication?

Me:

"What about sign language?"

I roll my eyes and nod.

"I take it that didn't go very well?"

I give a short, silent laugh. Understatement.

"What about writing? Have you tried that?"

I nod.

"Did it work?"

I shake my head, remembering red ink running down the wall.

"Did you try typing?"

Another nod.

"Did that work? Were you able to type?"

I shake my head emphatically.

"Let's try it again." She clicks a few keys on her laptop and holds it out to me. I shake my head and push it away. I don't want to "accidentally" smash her laptop. It looks expensive.

"Come on, Nick, just try it, please. We'll never get anywhere if you don't cooperate."

I take a deep breath and take the computer. She has opened up a new Word Document, and the cursor blinks at me accusingly in a blank, white screen. I blink back for a moment.

"Just hit any key," she urges. "Don't worry about making sense."

With a sigh, I hit a key, and then another. It is gibberish, just as I expected. Clenching my teeth, I continue, hitting the keys harder and harder. Finally I look up at the screen. To my surprise it reads:

Agdlksjxamidead

I stare at the jumble of letters, trying to make sense of them. My finger hovers over the delete key.

"Stop!" Dr. Clarke commands sharply. I jerk my hand back as if it had burned me. She holds out one perfectly manicured hand, fingers curled in a "gimme" gesture. Slowly I pass the laptop over to her, expecting that at any minute she will start laughing. I decide that if she laughs at me I will get up and walk out.

She puts on a pair of half-moon glasses and reads the screen slowly, thoughtfully. Finally she taps a few keys and looks up at me, pulling the glasses off. "Legitimate question," she says seriously. "The answer is no."

She passes the computer back to me. When I look at the screen, I see that she has put in the spaces and punctuation, so now my message reads, "Am I dead?" I squint at the screen, wondering where that came from. I don't even remember thinking that.

I take a deep breath and position my fingers over the keys again. Slowly I type, the letters coming a little easier now. When I look up at the screen it reads, "howdoiknow"

Dr. Clarke takes the computer and reads my new message. Then she puts the laptop on the desk and leans in toward me. I flinch, thinking she is going to get in my face the way Sara did. I don't think I can handle that again.

Instead she picks up my wrist and puts her fingertips against my pulse. My heart is pounding. "Feel that?" she asks, lifting up my wrist. "You're alive, Nick. You survived."

After a moment she finally releases my wrist. I hold my hands up and inspect them carefully, marveling that they no longer shake. In fact, I feel like I'm carved from stone, incapable of movement, of reaction, of emotion.

I'm not sure how long I sit like that, unmoving, as Dr. Clarke tries to get me to type again. After a while she gives up and tries a different tack.

"I thought you might be interested to hear what Dr. Grissom told me last week."

I look up at her warily. Maybe I want to hear it and maybe I don't. Can I really handle Grissom's honest opinion of me?

"Do you want to hear it?" she prods.

I nod slowly.

"He told me about the stalker in your attic. He mentioned that you handled that incident very well."

I look back down at my hands. This is a waste of my time, because Grissom obviously wasn't honest with her either. We both know I didn't "handle that incident" very well.

Dr. Clark continues, although I'm hardly listening anymore. "He seems to have a high opinion of you. He believes you'll recover from this incident as well."

I continue to stare at my hands. She falls silent, and the silence stretches out so long that I finally look up at her. She is watching me with a concerned expression.

"Nick? What's wrong?"

I shrug. It's nothing I can explain to her, and even if I could I doubt she would understand it anyway. I feel another irrational surge of anger at Grissom, but I keep my emotions carefully hidden. I don't understand why I'm so angry at him, anyway. He's trying to help me, I remind myself.

Dr. Clark glances at her watch. "All right, Nick, I guess I'll see you next week. Don't--don't do anything rash."

I get up and walk out without looking back. She follows me out and stops Greg just as he is standing up. "Excuse me, can I talk to you for a moment?"

That pulls me out of my stillness. I jerk my head up and glare at her. She didn't ask my permission to talk to Greg. Greg glances nervously from the Doc to me and back again.

"It will just be for a moment," she says firmly. "This way please."

With an apologetic smile at me, Greg follows her into her office. While he is gone, I fume inwardly, fists clenched. She has no right to tell him anything. It's supposed to be private. I perch on the edge of my chair and stare at the closed door.

After just a few moments, the door opens and Greg slips out. He silently chews on his lip and shoots me concerned glances while we walk out to the car. I won't look him in the eye.

He doesn't volunteer to tell me what Dr. Clarke told him, but when we get back to my house, he disappears into my bathroom for a minute. I don't hear any water running.

When he comes out, I'm sitting on the couch with the TV turned up too loud for conversation. He fixes me a sandwich for lunch, but nothing for himself. He plunks the plate and a glass of milk down in front of me and folds his arms, blocking my view of the TV. I try to look around him.

"She's just worried about you. Frankly, so am I."

I scowl at him.

"Sara told me you were moping around. Looks like she was right."

So he was the one she was talking to on the phone. I should have known. I find I don't really care.

"I brought something to show you. I'll be right back. Eat your lunch."

He goes out the front door, leaving it open. I push the sandwich aside and continue mindlessly watching the Discovery Channel. I'm not really following what's happening on the show. Something about moose migration, I think.

After a moment, Greg returns with a lidded file box, kicking the door shut behind him. I try to stay focused on the TV, but curiosity keeps turning my head toward that box.

Greg gives a short laugh. "Eat your lunch, and I'll show you."

Still scowling, I shove a bite of sandwich into my mouth and swallow it almost without chewing, washing it down with a swig of milk.

Greg nods at me and sets the box on the floor next to the coffee table. "Eat some more," he commands, while he removes the lid and starts pulling stuff out of the box. A packet of pictures, still in the lab envelope, with my name written on the outside in Grissom's block printing. A coil of wire connected to a tiny camera. Swabs in plastic vials, with white labels that I can't quite make out. A CD in a jewel case.

While I force down another bite of sandwich, he pulls a laptop out of the box and boots it up. He opens the jewel case and puts the disk in the player. I can't see the screen.

Unable to contain my curiosity any longer, I set the sandwich aside and click off the TV. I start to pick up the packet of pictures, but Greg slaps my hand away. "You're not allowed to touch, only look. I got special dispensation from Grissom, but it didn't include you handling the evidence."

Frowning, I put my hands in my lap, and Greg starts to open the packet of pictures, but then hesitates, and sets them aside instead. "Look at this first."

He turns the computer so I can see it. Internet Explorer is open; there is only one line in the middle of the webpage. It reads, "You can only watch." The word "watch" is a link. I frown at Greg. What the hell is this?

"Ready?"

I nod. He clicks on the link, and a picture pops up, a video feed. A bright light switches on, and there I am, in my coffin, head twisting to and fro, sweating and pushing on the lid. My breath catches in my throat at the sight.

"When the light came on, that was us. We wanted to keep the light on for you. We--we didn't know, about the fan."

I stare unblinking at the screen. It doesn't even look like me anymore. Just some stranger.

Greg is watching me carefully. Finally he closes the laptop, sets it aside, and picks up the pictures again. He brushes imaginary crumbs off the coffee table and lays the pictures out one-by-one, with exaggerated care.

My frown deepens as I stare at the pictures, not sure what I'm seeing. He picks up the closest one. "This is the box we found--well, Catherine and Warrick found it, buried in Gordon's warehouse," Greg explains. I squint at the picture and make out a dog, obviously dead, lying in a plexiglass coffin.

He puts the picture down and picks up the next one. It is of a fan, feeding air into the side of the box. I squeeze my eyes shut and hear the whirring, clicking off when the light comes on. I hear the sound of Greg shuffling the pictures around.

"These are the dimples we found under the box. Hodges figured out what they were." I open my eyes and see a close-up of a round, grayish divot in plexiglass. I give Greg a look of confusion.

"Explosives," he clarifies, but he looks confused too. "Remember? Hodges figured it out just in time."

I shake my head. No, I don't remember that. Was that what Dr. Clark was talking about? She said there was a bomb under the box. That part is completely missing from my memory.

"When we pulled you out, it exploded. We were lucky you stayed still when we opened the box, otherwise you would have been blown to bits. I don't know how you managed that, man. I would have been out of there like a shot."

I remember wanting to jump up as soon as the box was open, but I didn't. Something held me there, trapped, even after the lid was off. What was it? Why don't I remember?

I stare at the pictures, numbly. They don't seem real. My eyes jump around, catching glimpses of the other shots--there are some of me in the hospital, the bruise on my side, the ant bites. A couple are of the shattered remains of the box.

I know I should have some sort of emotional response, but there's nothing there. It's like I'm observing from the outside. The pictures don't have anything to do with me. I push them away.

"We all worked together to find you, Nick." Greg's voice is more serious than I have ever heard from him. "Every one of us would have given our lives to get you out of that box. But the irony is, you're still there. You won't let yourself out." He shakes his head. "Don't take it with you, man."

Something held me in that box, holds me there still, but I can't quite see it.

A picture springs to my mind, Grissom's face, distorted through the Plexiglas and mud, his hand on one side of the glass, resting against mine on the other. His lips move, "Promise me!" I feel myself reply, "I promise." What did I promise?

Suddenly it comes to me. I promised to stay still, not to move. Grissom made me promise to stay in the box. My hands start shaking again at the realization.

Greg grabs my hands in his. I want to fight him, but I can't summon the energy. His grip is firm.

"After the lab exploded," he says hoarsely, "I walked around in a fog for weeks. None of it seemed real. I couldn't fathom that that had actually happened to me, and yet every time I closed my eyes, I would see the flash. I could even smell the smoke." He swallows hard, eyes shining with unshed tears. "I see the same look in your eyes, Nick. You gotta dig your way out.

I am trembling all over now. I yank away from Greg and clench my hands into fists, my fingernails leaving half-moon impressions in my palms.

Greg suddenly stands up. "Stand up, Nick," he says, voice quavering. I don't move. I can't move. "Stand up!" he shouts. I jump to my feet, every muscle tense. My fists refuse to unclench.

"You wanna hit something? Hit me," Greg says.

I stare at him, watching the colors return to his face, the spots of red on his cheeks, his shock of blond hair. My teeth are clamped together so tightly my jaw aches, but I can't move.

"Hit me!" he commands, voice gaining strength. I take a feeble swing at his arm, but he blocks the blow. "Come on, don't hold back. Hit me harder!"

My vision goes to red, and the only thing I see is Grissom's face, making me promise to stay in the box. I strike out blindly, and my fist connects with something, hard. "That's better," comes Greg's voice through the red, and then I feel a blow to my shoulder.

I hit back, and the next thing I know Greg is falling and dragging me with him, and we are rolling on the floor, still fighting. We grapple for a minute, then my fist connects with something that makes a "crunch". I feel Greg roll away; he curls up into a ball, moaning.

The red clears from my vision long enough for me to make out that Greg's hands are over his face; blood is gushing from his nose. Everything is in living color.

"Greg!" I croak. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry."

"Dammit, just get me a towel or something."

"O-okay." I race to the kitchen and grab a green-striped towel from the bar on the front of the oven. When I dash back into the living room, Greg is sitting cross-legged on the floor, both hands to his nose. Bright red blood is oozing out between his fingers and dripping onto the light blue carpet.

I kneel next to him and help press the towel to his nose. It is soaked almost instantly. I want to ask him if he wants some ice. What comes out is "Ice?"

He shakes his head, and meets my eye. I can see that he is smiling beneath the towel. "You talked!" he crows.

"Huh?" I say stupidly.

"You talked! You're talking!"

A smile slowly comes to my face as well. "Guess I am. How 'bout that?" My voice is scratchy and hoarse, but it is my voice.

Greg shifts the towel to find a dry spot. "All it took was breaking my nose. I'll have to hire myself out to psychiatrists as a therapeutic tool."

"Could be . . . painful," I rasp, sinking down to sit next to Greg on the floor.

"You're probably right." His tone turns serious. "Look, man, I was serious about what I said. Don't take it with you, Nick."

I take a deep breath and nod. I can feel tears threatening, burning behind my eyelids, but they don't surface. "Working on it, Greggo."

He shrugs. "Best I can hope for, I guess. Can you get me another towel?"

I flash him a grin. "You bet," I say, then wince from the new bruises as I gingerly get to my feet. It feels good to finally feel something again, even if it's pain.

&&

The next day I kick everyone out. No more babysitters. Because I'm fine. Really. I don't even need the damn sleeping pills anymore. I can't find them anyway, but that's all right. I don't need Dr. Clark either, which I call up and nicely tell her. Thanks for your help, but I'll be all right on my own from now on.

I call and leave a three-word message on Grissom's voicemail: "I forgive you." Let him puzzle over that for a while.

I still have a little trouble with bugs, and tight spaces, but everyone's got their little quirks. I still check my attic twice a week, too. That doesn't mean there's something wrong with me. Not a problem. I'm fine.

&&

That's the end, which means this is your last chance to review. Pretty please?


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